Bramble
by Countenance
Summary: Kicking a dead man was probably not the best idea she had. One-shot.


**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.**

**A/N: Bored. Finished. Leave a review if it pleases you.**

Her filthy blue jeans, muddy from the long track through the flooded and dark London streets were being soaked by the liquid seeping up. Love grass seeds were piercing through its worn, smooth hem and uncomfortably scratching at her ankles like a bunch of her grandmothers blunt rusty needles.

That she mulishly refuse to trash, though they were a huge hazard to her health. Bramble could list dozens of diseases she could contract from them, such as tetanus - Grandma had never taken any shots to prevent them; she was of the lofty opinion that medicine was as trustworthy as the dubious art of alchemy, which is to say not at all - and a fatal infection.

Sometimes, Bramble's grandma could be rather stupid.

"Bramble, these were Grandpa George's and I's wedding gifts! You honestly can't expect me to throw them away! And they were made of gold!" She would screech in her British accent, possessively clutching the embroidered pouch of them to her saggy, lacy bosom in horror as she oh-so-subtly tottered to lock them up in her floral china cabinet where Bramble and her mother would never find it. They would roll their eyes together and smile indulgently at her antics, but secretly make a mental note to try better on their next visit.

'I... Want... Eat... Chicken... Bed... Home...' Bramble mumbled, heavy eyelids starting to fall close.

The lamp posts flickered, giving her a dim lighting at best, but it was just enough to make out the distinct shape of a castrated man. His body was burnt, as if it had been splashed with a bucket acid then dried and unceremoniously dumped there. His cheeks were purple with a bruise and a putrid odour of rot was being emitted. She slapped her ear where she heard a fly buzzing in circles. Bramble's cheeks were nearly frozen from the cold, she was terribly hungry and her legs were aching from walking for two hours on end. So she could not find any heart to pity the man, or feel any shock. Perhaps it was because her heart had been devoured by her ravenous stomach. It felt like it.

Bramble glanced down. If she her brain was still functioning at its full capacity, she would have said that the water was magnificently murky. It allowed her mind to row across the vast expend of imaginative waters. Waters where all sorts of dark, demonic creatures dwelled. A pleasant chill went up her spine.

Pity she was not coherent enough to give the normal response.

"Bleeding thing. Could'nt have picked a bet'er place tooo die coould' jaaaa?" she moaned sourly.

She removed her foot from the back of the naked corpse and gave it an impulsive kick to the ribs, before continuing her zombie like trudge home.

.

.

.

Bramble fumbled with keys clattering against each other and locked the door.

She whirled around and ran out the old building. Cursing under her breathe, she checked her watch. Five minutes. Five minutes late. Obviously, she had not been thinking rationally when she had slammed the alarm off in that morning.

'God, I'm was going to be late. My boss is going to kill me,' she sighed inwardly.

"S'cuse me, sorry! S'cuse, s'cuse." Bramble squeezed through the throng of people, cutting through them with her hands that were held in a prayer position.

"Oof!" Bramble flinched as she bounced back from the chest she had collided into. She looked up and saw a man dressed in a trench coat glaring at her with freaky eyes. Eyes coal black and devoid of warmth. Bramble shivered and pulled her coat tighter.

The February air was chilly and seemed to have iced the joints of the people she was packed amongst, like sardines in a can. Judging by the glacial pace the solid crowd was travelling at.

Though she doubt that was the reason why she had felt a sudden cold.

Despite the stranger's iciness, her heart warmed slightly. He somewhat reminded her of home. Before the incident.

Bramble snapped out of her reverie, hurriedly apologized and moved off. Five seconds wasted on bumping into someone. Someone who was not a sociopath about to kill her. Just someone who was... Having a bad day. Just like her. Her breathing rate increased and so the the wisps of warm air exiting her mouth. Even so, an unwarranted nagging feeling of delightful fear tugged at her gut.

An icy hand abruptly closed around her arm with a vice like grip. She nearly jumped in shock.

Bony and long, like her mother's plastic skeleton hand she would poke her with on Halloween, she noted. Her lips trembled and curved, as if cutting through her paper thin skin like a guilty killer's knife.

"You're coming with me."

.

.

.

A plaintive growl came from her stomach. She hadn't eaten breakfast in her rush to work. Now she was trapped in a room with some insane man.

"Bramble Marigold Hill. You're name was derived from your great grandmother and aunt. You are twenty seven years of age, suffer from malnutrition, live at what one might perceive as a garbage collector's nest, single, never had a partner, a thrill seeker, hungry, and a waitress. You have worked at Simon's Coffeehouse for a total of six years, not counting the time when you left to visit your currently deceased biological mother. An hour from now, you will be fired and replaced by Kelly four years ago, you were attending university in London under a medical course. However, your plans of becoming a nurse were crashed and burned when your second last living relative died from cancer, and so did your financial support. How boring. Two days ago you found a castrated corpse on the sidewalk and kicked it. Confess to the crime and John will release you," he listed apathetically in rapid succession, hands slamming on the desk.

Bramble blinked. Her mouth was agape in shock. "I'm sorry, but who are you, and how do you know all that?"

She attempted to push herself back but the chair refused to budge an inch. 'Oh lord. Was he a maniac? Who stuck glue to the floor these days?' fearfully, happily she thought.

"Look," she said, holding her hands up in an innocent gesture. "You've got the wrong man," "Or woman." She added, nodding severely for emphasis.

The man in the coat scrunched up his nose in a show of disdain. "Perhaps she could be a man in disguise? That would be interesting. No. Implausible." He muttered. "I don't believe you," he said curtly a second later. Dramatically, he impatiently extended his hand. "John? Hand me the gun. John? John!"

'John' stepped out from the shadows. He was shorter than the man, but still taller than her. "Sherlock! We are not going to shoot anyone!" he exclaimed as he slowly walked over. "And I'm not deaf! Once was enough."

Sherlock - Bramble noted her kidnapper's name - snorted in disgust. "Look at her! Does it seem like she's going to give us anything remotely useful anytime soon, unless we give her incentive to?"

"That's because I've done nothing wrong." She rolled her eyes as if a great deal of trouble had been imposed upon her, towards the ceiling adorned with cobwebs. Its floral styled wallpaper was peeling and blackening from the years of unuse, like flowers withering. Large families of dust had also settled comfortably on the four walls in a thickly translucent layer.

"Well, maybe that's because she's innocent!"

"Thank you!" They ignored her.

"Doubt it," Sherlock replied blasely with a dismissive wave of a hand.

"Sherlock! What proof do you have of her guilt?" John exploded as he gestured wildly. The burger gripped in his hand was illuminated by the weak desk light.

Her stomach growled again. Bramble sighed. It didn't look like they were going to stop arguing anytime soon. She felt as if she could eat a whole cow. Or a horse or a ...she fantasized. When the burger came into view, she could no longer restrain appetite. Rashly, she lunged towards the burger and bit into it.

Juicy tomatoes and tender beef... "Mmmm," She quickly chewed the food and took another bite, but paused mid way, when she met their staring eyes. One coldly, the other dumbfoundly holding the burger wrapper.

"Sorry," she lied, chewing some more.

John snatched away the burger and bemoaned its loss,"That was my lunch! How am I supposed to eat it now? You could have contracted mono." he peered into the crinkled plastic wrapper.

"You know what, Sherlock? Just shoot her."

Her heart thumped wildly like a bird desperately fluttering in its cage to escape. Just because she was a trill seeker didn't mean she was suicidal.

"With pleasure," Sherlock said as he picked up the gun and expertly twirled it to point toward her exposed forehead.

"I didn't mean it literally!" John protested.

"Well, then what do you mean?" Sherlock replied testily as he flipped the trigger.

"I said it metaphorically!" John shouted.

"Ditto!" Bramble rapidly agreed, wanting to escape the bullet.

They immediately turned towards her, incensed and irritated about the interruption during their heated argument.

"Shut up!" They simultaneously yelled. "Do shut up!"

Bramble sighed, gathered up what was left of her courage and asked,"When are you going to release me?"

"When you confess," Sherlock replied automatically.

"Sherlock! She's innocent!"

"Prove it," Sherlock replied boredly.

"We-Well..." John spluttered. His eyes suddenly lit up like twin fluorescent light bulbs shining particularly brightly. He had thought up what he thought was a great idea. "Maybe we could keep her in our apartment for a while to observe her!"

Sherlock abruptly began pacing around the cramped room that was no bigger than a walk in closet, muttering oddly to himself with his pianist-fingers steepled under his chin.

Sherlock didn't suppose she was likely to kill slit his throat in his sleep. The obviousness wouldn't fit the suspect's modus operandi and would be a sure-fire way to get caught. The motive for the acid thrown on victims' bodys' to mutilate them beyond recognition, was to impede the police investigation, as it would be much harder to catch the perpetrator if the murderer couldn't be shortlisted as a suspect in relation to the deceased. Thus it would make no sense for her to kill him. Unless... This was her plan all along. But this was his chance to catch her red handed, and the risk only made the game _much_ more fun.

"I suppose you do have a bright idea once in a century." Sherlock grudgingly said, as he swept out of the room with John chatting amiably at his side. "Come along." He beckoned with not a glance over his shoulder.

Bramble reluctantly lifted her handcuffed wrists with a metallic jingle of the chains and shuffled behind him, out of the dark, dank makeshift interrogation room.


End file.
